


The Animist's Promise

by die_eike



Series: The Mirror-Visitors [1]
Category: La Passe-Miroir | The Mirror Visitor - Christelle Dabos
Genre: A Winter's Promise, Anima - Freeform, Arranged Marriage, Canon Compliant, Citaceleste, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Ophethorn, Points of View, Slow Burn, Steampunk, The Mirror Visitor, The Pole, Thorn POV, betrothal, first encounter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27006400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_eike/pseuds/die_eike
Summary: “Never leave my aunt’s protection, trust no one else.”“‘No one else’—doesn’t that include you?”Her mockery fuelled the burning inside him. His fingers twitched, wanted to clasp around his pocket watch. Yes, it does, he would have loved to retort. Instead, only an inarticulate sound escaped him. He left the guest room and pulled the door shut behind him with a sudden jolt.
Relationships: Ophélie/Thorn (La Passe-Miroir)
Series: The Mirror-Visitors [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023420
Comments: 13
Kudos: 78





	1. First encounter with the sufficient person

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any property rights to the figures, magic or world I used in this fanfic, they are all Christelle Dabos'. I don't make money from this, it is just for fun.
> 
> This work belongs to a series in progress, so look out for regular updates: Thorn/Ophelia scenes from "A Winters Promise" from Thorn's POV. Including one or the other missing scene, and a little spin-off. Observing the world from Thorn's perspective feels ... interesting. And it is fun!
> 
> Chapter 1 - First encounter with the sufficient person  
> Chapter 2 - The correction  
> Chapter 3 - Betrayal  
> Chapter 4 - Touch points  
> Chapter 5 - The departure

Summary chapter1: Thorn meets the sufficient, but not necessary Animist.

The zeppelin had a delay of 56 minutes and 29 seconds, which was within the anticipated variance. Thorn stowed away his pocket watch, took his suitcase and went to the exit lock. The omnipresent humming of the engines was steadily decreasing, until it fell silent. A sudden jolt indicated the exact moment of their landing. 57 minutes and 46 seconds. The crew crowded in front of the exit, clogging it in a quite effective manner. Thorn passed between sacks and crates while trying to filter out the hustle, the shouting, the smells of wet leather and bodily odours. Finally, he reached the rectangle of grey sky and fresh air. He drew in a deep breath.

Anima was decidedly too warm. He had hoped for icy winds, to blow away the dull headache he was developing. It was autumn, nearly winter, after all. Instead, it was raining. Thorn began to sweat under his travel fur. He should have taken the time to investigate a little more closely what "winter" actually meant on this ark. He gripped his suitcase harder and strode down the gangway in a quick pace. Hangar workers mixed with the zeppelin crew. Their shouts mixed with the squealing of children. _Children?_ Thorn frowned.

A welcoming committee awaited him. Rosy faces surveyed him from behind a wall of umbrellas, the chattering from pink-lipped mouths generating a cacophony of excitement. Beads of sweat were slowly dripping down Thorn's back. An expansive figure in a sweeping dress pushed through the coats and umbrellas and started to prate, addressing him in an inappropriately intimate tone. That had to be the mother. The whole family was here. Thorn kept up an impenetrable expression, while his headache was getting worse. He let his gaze wander over the cluster of civilists and spotted the Doyenne, who acknowledged him with a nod that was barely noticeable under her black veil.

Suddenly, a mop of dark locks appeared right in front of him. Thorn was temporarily taken by surprise but immediately brought his claws under control. These people had absolutely no sense for keeping a proper distance. He felt his hair getting slick from sweat under the polar bear. From the sudden air of anticipation, he deduced that the slight, silent Something under the rain-slick hair, the square glasses and the broad scarf was his future wife. She was small. He scrutinized the red-tipped nose that was just reaching up to his chest. He could rarely discern any more features of this wrapped up and sodden figure. _No umbrella?_ That was a sufficiently irrational choice to question her intelligence, Thorn thought.

All eyes were fixed on them. Thorn focussed the wet hair again, swallowed and uttered a "Good evening".  
His betrothed did not look up, did not answer. She stayed silent, stiff like prey in the face of a predator.  
And Thorn felt a red-hot anger starting to rise inside of him.


	2. The correction

Summary chapter 2: Thorn makes a mistake.

Thorn was hungry. He imagined a wall of ice that blocked out the jabbering of the relatives. He tried to focus his attention exclusively on the filling of his pipe. The exact amount of tobacco flakes, compressed in the correct density, would mean a relief from the gnawing sensation in his stomach. At least temporarily.

Thorn found that the family’s display of outrage was believable: their sincere worry over the evidently vulnerable daughter, their dismay at his breach of the local protocol – a breach that seemed to be more severe than he had thought. Thorn was a superintendent, not an ambassador. He had never had the intention to stay at this ark for three weeks. There was not enough time. Yet again, he wondered what game the Doyennes were up to.

The stool he sat on was too small. He had to draw in his legs to avoid contact with the furniture. A rich breakfast was set out on the table and it smelled quite nicely. The pleasant scent of cacao flavored the air. Thorns stomach growled, but he would touch none of the food.

He was relatively confident about his assessment of the immediate family members. Even so, he had to stay vigilant. How easy would it be for his enemies to get rid of him out here, far away from any indications of suspicion and beyond the jurisdiction of an angry Farouk. He would not be lulled into a false sense of security by Anima, this place straight from the pages of a picture book. Virtually everything on the ark radiated an exaggerated sense of placidity. The mild weather. The picturesque cottages on the rolling hills; the round, friendly faces of their inhabitants. Even the encounter with Artemis had been pleasant – the only person he could have blamed for his headache had been Thorn himself. And this very kitchen he was in? It represented a prime example for a room meant to convey comfort and coziness. For a fleeting moment, Thorn was tempted to test his surroundings for the presence of illusions. He quickly dismissed the thought. The worst aspect of this ark was that the locals, instead of fabricating them, were actually living their illusions.

While filling his pipe, Thorn continued to brood over why the Doyennes were hoodwinking him and over the exact nature of their aspirations. After the bulk of his anger had subsided, he had started to analyze the circumstances. There was only a slight probability that the situation was the result of random effects. Did this imply that the Doyennes knew about his plans? Nonetheless, he mustn’t completely disregard the chance factor.

The glass door opened and the object of his calculations entered. Thorn gritted his teeth at the look of the tousled figure who was wearing a robe reminiscent of a sanatorium’s institutional clothing. The conversation that had filled the room fell silent. Gazes locked over his fiancée's head, who, unconcerned, sat down and started to eat. At least, she had managed to mumble a “Good morning”. Thorn reminded himself to accept her for what she was. There was not enough time to find a replacement.

To communicate a change in travel plans was a simple matter, in Thorn's opinion. The relatives, however, were approaching his betrothed with the cautious behavior and appeasing tone one would address a very young child with. Thorn had enough. He drew the attention of the gathered with the clicking of his pocket watch. 

“We will depart this afternoon, with the zeppelin at four o’ clock”, he said.

He expected another round of exclamations of discontent from the family. Instead, his fiancée whispered something.

"Go home then, Sir, as duty calls. I’m not stopping you.“

Thorn leapt out of his seat. What was that? For the first time since his arrival, he took the effort to study his future wife. To really see her. Every instant they had met so far was perfectly imprinted into his memory. The rainy encounter at the zeppelin hangar. The carriage ride in the dark. Her in the back of the observatory. He just hadn’t cared to look. Standing while she sat, he was towering over her. From behind broken glasses, a pair of eyes glared at him defiantly, eyes that sparkled with intelligence. 

Thorn balled his fists. What a serious error he nearly… nearly? He had already made the mistake. Time for a correction. 

"Is this a refusal?” he tested while observing her carefully.

A vein began to pulse at his temple when the rest of the assembled took advantage of this moment for an outbreak of smoldering family conflicts. Thorn shielded his senses from the hubbub; he was only interested in the slender person who kept holding his gaze, withstanding his scrutiny. A hot shiver ran through him as he recognized the extent of his misjudgment. He had thought of his betrothed as an invalid, retarded and barely articulate. He had kept asking himself what a mental weakness meant for the transfer of family powers and had even assumed that the Doyennes were scheming against him. But the young woman in front of him was perfectly healthy, albeit recalcitrant: her sloppy way of dressing, her unwillingness to speak – all of it had been intentional. To express her aversion against him? He could live with that. Thorn wasn’t sure if he was more relieved than annoyed. And if he was more annoyed with his betrothed’s childish behavior than with himself.

She finally lowered her stare and focused on her meal again. He accepted that this was as much of an answer as he would get, for the time being. He slumped back onto the bench. The tension in the room dissolved as if by his command. He hoped that not too much of his emotions resonated in his voice when he gave his betrothed the order to immediately pack her things. His gaze wandered back towards her and suddenly, her name found his way to his lips. 

“Ophelia”, he added and tested the soft ring of it.  
Ophelia, who had made a perfect fool of him.


	3. Betrayal

Summary chapter 3: Thorn’s plans are in danger.

Thorn pressed his forehead against the cool glass surface. A hoarse noise escaped his throat. The cold turned into a comforting pain. He pushed the fingertips of one hand against the frost flowers and watched as the crystals first blurred around the corners, then dissolved completely, transitioning with ease from perfect symmetry into a state of chaos.

He should go back to his cabin. 

He should finish the lists on reports and payments. 

He should fold up his garments, stow everything away and prepare for the landing on the Pole. 

He didn’t. 

He should feel ashamed. 

He didn’t. 

Darkness was like coldness the absence of something; a silence that was able to calm his senses and his mind. He pushed harder to stifle the dangerous thoughts. He had a responsibility, after all. The skin on his fingertips started to burn. Voices in the corridor. Thorn flinched and fine crystals instantly overgrew the treacherous spots on the wide window front. 

"That idea of yours was very nice, Aunt, but Monsieur Thorn is a busy man, even while travelling on an airship. I don’t think I will get an opportunity to make an effort, as you put it." 

Thorn pushed himself off the window front. He disappeared into the shadows of a side corridor just as two wrapped-up figures emerged on the other end of the promenade. 

"Child." The voice was filled with indignation. "This situation has to change as soon as possible. Could you not ask the Captain to convene a last dinner before we land? He is such a charming man." 

_ Bartholomeus' fingers resting on Ophelia's hips as he pushed her towards the chair.  _

"Aunt." Ophelia's tone was reproachful. 

_Bartholomeus' face after the lecture of his medal._

"Well, maybe not. We will come up with something, I guess. Oh, look at this perpetual darkness! It is no wonder the people of the Pole have no manners, when even the sun does not stick to the rules." 

_ The sun on Anima, bathing trees covered with deep red leaves in soft golden light. Rays of sunlight passing through the glass front and flooding the zeppelin, painting Ophelia’s silhouette black before the sunset.  _

"It is so cold my teeth start to chatter. Let us go back to the cabin." 

"Please do go ahead, Aunt, I will follow shortly after." 

Thorn held his breath and fumbled for his fob watch; its metallic clicking, however, would have been too loud. Instead, he counted. Several dozen heartbeats he counted, but Ophelia still lingered. In the half-shadow of the corridor lighting, he could make out a wrapped-up figure, rounded by layers of clothing. She did not move, only wisps of condensated breath were flickering in and out, in and out. The darkness of the polar night had turned the window front into a giant mirror. Frost flowers rimmed her portrait. 

_"You don't know me, Sir."_ Thorn gritted his teeth. The scent of chamomile stuck to the memory. When he had been sick as a child, Berenilde had administered chamomile tea to him. He hated the brew. It smelled of weakness. No, he didn't know Ophelia. She was one of the many unknowns in his equation, whose influence on the result he sought to minimize by all means. At the same time, he tried to keep the necessary elements arbitrarily substitutable, in case his first attempt failed. He could not let himself get distracted by what the result of the equation would mean for one of its variables. They were too unimportant in the face of his plans. 

And yet. Thorn touched the bridge of his nose and silently released a breath. _Ophelia, in front of his cabin._ What had made him talk? Betrayal. Something inside him was well on the way toward compromising his plans. Thorn swallowed dryly. There was a part in his brain where he kept a model of his plan. Whenever he collected relevant data, he stored them there, fed them into his model. It allowed him to calculate different scenarios. He thought of it like a drawer he could open to look into the future. No, not the future. Likely futures. He did not know Ophelia. But he had seen her death, again and again. And the more Thorn learned about her, the more probable that scenario got. 

Rosaline, boasting with Ophelia's animistic abilities. Dead. 

Ophelia's clumsiness, her physical weakness. Dead. 

The dreamy inquisitiveness with which she explored every corner of the airship. Dead. 

The refreshing honesty with which she turned Bartholomeus down. Dead. 

As the memory resurfaced, so did his anger. Thorn felt it rising hot in his stomach. He drew in a sharp breath. What had made him rebuffing Ophelia, intimidating her, offending her? His ribcage kept compressing the air, he did not want to, he could not breathe out. He stood in the shadows and watched his betrothed placing one hand onto her mirror image.  What was the value of one life? 

The air in his lungs demanded escape, he wanted to scream it out a storm of fury. His muscles started to shake. Thorn pulled deeper into the shadows. Ophelia disappeared from his field of vision. He hated God. Dedicating his life to the liberation of humanity had left himself without choices. He suppressed the urge to laugh out loud. What was one life worth, in the face of the greater good? _An unknown assassin, his chest a bloody mess after the strike of Thorn’s claws. Berenilde, hunched over the bodies of her children. A dark square descended on his tiny face and he couldn’t breathe…_ Thorn burrowed his head in his hands. God! 

"Hello?" The hesitant voice was barely more than a whisper. "Is anyone there?" 

Thorn fled. His boots clattered over the parquet. Only when he reached his cabin he stopped, pried the door open and let it slam shut behind him, leaned on it, tried to calm his breath. But his body did not obey, was as treacherous as his thoughts. He would take over control of himself again. And then he would continue, relentless like wound-up mechanical movement. 

He hated God. 

And he was ashamed. 


	4. Touch points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things move in a circle, others touch it.

Touch points

I

"Help me."

It would have been possible for him to heave the sledge on his own, but it would have also been extremely inefficient. Must not lose time. He would certainly avail himself of the resources he had at his disposal.

Resources of a questionable usefulness.

While the one at least followed his instructions, albeit hampered by her unsuitable footwear, the other rejected any assistance and made her remonstrance heard in a piercing voice. Must not attract attention.

He felt his anger rise. _The Pole. A cold shimmer of distant stars on frozen fields._

When he was finally able to force out a request for silence, it worked. For exactly six minutes and twenty-five seconds.

_The crunching of freshly fallen snow under his boots. Crystal by crystal, everything is wrapped in a pure white blanket: color, smell, sound._

His anger was manageable. Simply a question of steering and control. He conveyed instructions to both women, for the safety of all of them: to be quick, noiseless and, in particular, compliant.

He subdued a shaking of the hand with which he pushed open the massive wooden door to the stables. Smells pressed against his face. He had taken a deep breath beforehand. It would be sufficient; enough to avoid inhaling the animal odors, the warmth of bodies pressed against each other. But the presence of the two strangers made the beasts nervous and Thorn was required to give up his precious air for a comforting whistling.

They entered the pits and turns of Citaceleste. The air out here was no less revolting than in the stables, but it became a secondary matter. Thorn checked his fob watch. He had planned their way precisely. He was informed about the movements of the inhabitants. Not of each individual, but of the statistical totality. From this he could determine the path that least likely crossed ways with other inhabitants at a certain time. Bodies in time and space. The three pillars of existence. Knowledge meant power, the capacity to act. _Where was God?_

Thorn darted ahead, grabbed Ophelia by the wrist and pulled her into the shadows just in time. She gasped with shock, but Thorn didn’t spare a look.

A group of young Mirages, hunting for nighttime pleasures, passed at the other end of the street. Lantern light turned their shadows into bizarre figures, which danced wildly over the pavement to the sounds of laughter.

Thorn hastened his pace, towing his fiancée after him, the aunt followed. Fortunately, he as well as his fiancée were wearing gloves. Filtered through two layers of fabric, he could endure the contact. He concentrated entirely on the darkness of the alley, the empty, unplastered facades, the holes in the ground.

_Coldness that froze the air in the lungs. A moonless night. Ta- dam._

Thorn went even faster. They were nearly there.

_Ta- dam. Ta- dam._

His pulse quickened as a familiar foul alley appeared before them.

_Ta- dam. Ta- dam. Ta- dam._

His breathing was too hurried. Thorn frowned. What was this?

He let go of Ophelia’s hand as abruptly as if he had burned himself, felt how his blood rushed hot into his cheeks. Seconds later he had gained control over himself again.

They had reached their destination and he rushed the two women through the back entrance. Only when he had double-locked the door after their entry he allowed himself to feel relief. The first phase of his plan had been successful. He had an Animist. They had arrived at the estate without further incidents.

_Only his heart still stumbled in a foreign rhythm._

Thorn balled his right hand into a fist. The faint vibration of her pulse at his fingertips – it had been barely noticeable. And yet it had infiltrated his senses like an adversary. He clenched his teeth and strode past the women, through the illusion.

***

II

Thorn dunked the razor blade into the basin with steaming water and drew it in accurate strokes through the foam on his skin. Each stroke freed him of the useless and the unnecessary. The air in the spacious bathing chamber was still damp from the short but scalding hot bath he had taken. He inhaled, abided the steam. Only the hazy coating on the mirror was inconvenient. He used a towel to clear it in regular intervals. A face with sharp angles appeared then. Grey eyes whose look he held. Had to hold.

He rarely asked himself how his appearance affected others. Rarely was it relevant. And that also applied this evening. And yet his gaze crept back to the mirror, wandered over thin, neatly combed back hair, over bony contours and pale scar tissue. _Not relevant._

_Ophelia, surrounded by Berenilde’s evening landscape, looked around with wide eyes. And then she saw behind the scenes, not without warning her aunt and surprising Thorn profoundly._

Thorn finished his shave and dried off. He had shed the sweaty travel clothing like an old skin and had piled it in a corner. He had wanted to fold it up carefully and then forced himself not to. Servants would see to his needs here. His fresh garments were laid out on a sideboard. The fabric still emitted the subtle whiff of vanilla that was characteristically for recently pressed cotton. 

The clothing embraced his limbs with a cover of purpose, his skeleton straightened inside the uniform. He traced over the shirt and the night-blue waistcoat, corrected their fit. He checked the time, closed his fingers around the watch and sank it into his vest pocket. Thorn hesitated, turned back to the mirror. For a moment too long, he finally eyed the tall, gaunt figure.

He didn’t like mirrors. What he saw inside struck him equally unpleasant each time. A projection of his self on surface perpendicular to his body. How much of this projection determined who he was?

His features softened, his outline blurred. The vapour had begun to fog the mirror again. Thron wanted to grab the towel, then he paused. Rather than wiping it off, he drew a point into the steam coat. _Time._ A second point. _Space._ A last point, a wobbly, misshappen lump. _Body._ Those were not pillars, those were points whose relations to each other defined the shape of the world. With a sudden motion, Thorn swung a perfect circle around the three points. He surveyed the rest of the mirror surface: infinity. Circles unfolded in space, globes swirled around permanently changing axes. To not make use of this potential, to only permit one configuration – that was truly a waste of possibilities.

Thorn wiped across his universe, erased the traces of his mental world that had spilled over onto the mirror surface. He turned and made his way to the dining room.

***

III

Thorn knew that his aunt was considered a beauty. Tonight, he could nearly grasp this concept. It hid in the Golden Ratio of distances between her mouth, eyes and nose, was encrypted in the interplay of light and shadow on her skin. Simple measurements, which, Thorn thought, were subject to unnecessarily complex valuation models.

"I understand your disappointment."

Berenilde, long legs crossed, sat in an armchair at the end of the table and took a sip from her wine chalice. She was facing the broad windows, which were framed by arcades, her gaze lay softly on the reflections of candlelight in the night-black panes.

Thorn sat down. The chair’s feet scratched over the floor. When a servant girl brought steaming soup, his stomach rumbled. He reached for the water carafe.

"But I think you do not need to worry too much about it," Berenilde added. "This material is shapeable, I can sense that."

Thorn set down his glass, aligned his cutlery with the table’s edge. In the silence, he heard his own swallowing overly clearly.

"You are mistaken."

His aunt turned around, eyebrows raised. In this moment, steps and voices announced the guests. Berenilde posed in her chair and contemplated Thorn from behind halfway closed eyelids. Then she stretched out her arms towards his fiancée, who, accompanied by Rosaline, had entered the dining room. Thorn observed their interaction from the shadows; pearl grey and blue fabric performed a dance whose rules he knew, but did not understand. He reached for the soup and mechanically begun to satisfy his hunger, spoon after spoon. He forced himself to lower his filters, to permit the full sensation of smell and taste, challenged himself.

Berenilde’s voice brought him back to the table.

"I’ve not heard much out of you, Thorn! There I was, hoping that a touch of femininity in your life would make you more talkative."

He thought he could almost sense how his aunt bared her claws against him. He should have anticipated one of her moods, but her words hit him unexpectedly. When he looked up, his eyes caught at his fiancée, who herself was staring into his face, spoon tilted in her hand. It took him split seconds to run through different answers and reject them again. How he hated words. He finally came to a conclusion. One he had already reached some time ago, he had to admit.

_Ophelia turned around herself in the gleaming evening landscape, with a look full of doubt behind slightly tinged glasses._

Another warning was necessary. A warning, and a confession.

"I killed a man."

"You did well."

So Berenilde agreed to steer the course of the conversation in this direction. Good. The effort was already causing him a headache. Thorn left it to his aunt to put conspiracies, palast murders and family rivalries into context.

"You explained nothing to them? So what did you spend your time doing during the journey?"

A wall of pain hit Thorn’s brow and rolled over his skull. She couldn’t know. She did not know how he had spent his time in the zeppelin, alone in his cabin, encased by a dark, paralyzing cloud. Thorn set his jaw. This touch of weakness was over now.

With an impenetrable expression, Thorn listened how Berenilde continued to explain the machinations of the court, until Rosaline posed the crucial question: would Ophelia be in danger?

Thorn’s stomach clenched. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and then darted a glance at Berenilde.

_Don’t._

His aunt’s mouth curved in a hint of a smile.

_Of course not._

She fluttered her eyelashes and formulated an evasive answer that concerned … Ophelia’s fecundity. Thorn swallowed with effort. A piece of fish had nearly stuck in his throat. Thorn’s headache increased, his neck burned. He carefully avoided to look into his fiancée’s face. Instead, he watched her from the corners of his eyes, studied the rigid posture, the movement with which she pushed her glasses up the nose. Rosaline created a shaky, agitated contrast to that. Thorn admired Berenilde for her diplomatic tone; Rosaline went too far. His fiancée finally jumped to her companion's aid, had realized the danger for her and tried to calm the situation.

Just as Thorn wanted to lean back into his chair, a pair of eyes behind glasses flashed at him.

_Help me!_

Thorn had predicted many things, but not that. A hot shiver ran over his back. He hesitated for a second, furious about her courage, furious about himself. He couldn’t give her anything. He couldn't even guarantee that he wouldn't take too much from her. A warning, and a confession.

"I have many enemies at court," he addressed Rosaline. "Your niece …" He gave Ophelia an icy look. "… isn’t the center of the world."

And it was his task to ensure that it remained that way.

***

Thorn filled his pipe in a rehearsed sequence of movements. Ophelia and Rosaline had left the dining room. The servants had cleared the table and then retreated. Thorn’s thoughts stayed gloomy. He hated conversations. There were too many options to describe facts that were identical, and every option altered – if not the content – the meaning of what was said. It was a code he could not decipher because it depended on too many variables. _Friendship doesn’t come pouring through his door._ As a matter of fact.

Pearly laughter broke through his thoughts.

"Thorn, Thorn. That was… anything but uninteresting."

Thorn lifted the eyes from his pipe. Berenilde had sprawled again in her armchair.

"I think it could be entertaining to play the caretaker for a while. Until…" The smile on her lips died.

"Of course, aunt." Thorn lit his pipe, took a deep drag and exhaled a hint of jealousy and worry into the smoke. He pulled out his fob watch and cradled the familiar weight in his hand.

"I have to leave tonight."

He took another drag.

"Was it wise to scare our little Animist like that?"

"I have come to the conclusion that we need to make better use of our resources. Anything else would be inefficient. Our guests must learn to take care of themselves, to a certain extent. The prerequisite for this is to present an unvarnished picture of the hazard situation."

Berenilde swirled the wine in her chalice. The silence stretched.

Thorn cleared his throat. "Of the situation itself, of course, not the details."

"And when the ...details... finally reveal themselves?"

"Not relevant. My task is to make sure that the event can occur at all."

Thorn blew out a ring of smoke. The circle wavered around him until it faded eventually. Berenilde rose with a rustling of clothes. She stopped at his height and gave him an unreadable look.

"I am curious to see what exactly will turn out to be relevant in the end."

With these words she excited the dining room and left Thorn sitting in the company of shadows.


	5. The departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorn sets out.

Thorn stood in the dark. Illuminated by sparse reflections from indefinite light sources, edges and planes appeared at random in the dim of the hallway: here the ledge of a fireplace, there the dial of a pendulum clock. The door to the guest room was a deep black box.

An unfamiliar feeling in his stomach was bothering him. Thorn hoped that it was not yesterday’s dinner. An upset stomach was the last thing he could use right now. He had slept a couple of hours and then used the rest of the night to prepare his departure. His suitcase contained several carefully selected items. A pistol holster, hidden below his tunic, nestled against his leg. He was all set, as well equipped as possible.

And then his feet had carried him to the front of the guest room.

He raised his hand, hesitated, was briefly confused. Didn't he put his trust in Berenilde’s competence? Something else had driven him to the front of his fiancée's room at the crack of dawn. A tingling sensation, as if from poorly circulated limbs, spread inside him. The outcome of his journey was uncertain.

His knocks turned out softer than intended, as if he wanted chance to decide if he would be heard. Thorn breathed deeply into the darkness of the doorway. A subdued thumping sounded, then the blackness shifted, revealing the outline of tousled hair. The scent of night's sleep enveloped him, calling up a memory: _Freya, giggling in her flowery nightgown, presented one of her precious dolls to him._ Thorn gritted his teeth.

“It’s not for want of warning you.”

His remark sounded feeble in his own ears. Words, nothing but words. That was not why he was here. He contemplated the features that happenstance lights revealed: an oval face, dark, spectacle-less eye sockets under curved eyebrows.

Finally, a whisper. “I can no longer pull out.”

The fatality in her voice clenched the tingling in his stomach. “It is, indeed, too late. From now on, we’ll have to compromise, one with the other.”

 _Or not._ He pictured Ophelia, ascending in a zeppelin to Anima, liberated. Thorn shook the image off. Failure was a possibility, but not an option.

“Are we leaving already?”

“I’m leaving. I have to get back to my activities.”

He had redirected his correspondence to Berenilde's estate for the duration of his absence, so that he could read about the latest developments as soon as he arrived. Efficiency always paid off.

“And what do your activities consist of?”

A complaint from the Association of Illusionweavers concerning the latest tax increase. A report about excessive police violence in the 16th province. An open letter from Duke Benedict and signed by the landed gentry, requesting Thorn to refocus on his areas of authority. A clerk announcing an inspection of all decrees issued by the Treasury within the last eight months.

“I work at a finance office. But I haven’t come to see you to make small talk. I’m in a hurry.”

A considerable amount of communications reached him every day, of which some were trivial, others disturbing. Some were long-awaited. He had spent months planning and waiting, and now the answer reached him at a most inopportune time. _Failure was not an option._ He had to go.

“I’m listening to you.” Reflections danced on Ophelia's iris.

He pushed the door open, squeezed past his fiancée and, once again, gave instructions for her protection. She had to prepare against many things: break-ins, poison, spies. Berenilde's moods. He was puzzled that she remained so calm, barely batting an eyelash, looking at him from half-closed eyes, yawning. Was she still not taking the danger seriously? Not taking him seriously? The tingling in his stomach faded as hot anger washed over it.

“Never leave my aunt’s protection, trust no one else.”

“‘No one else’—doesn’t that include you?”

Her mockery fuelled the burning inside him. His fingers twitched, wanted to clasp around his pocket watch. _Yes, it does,_ he would have loved to retort. Instead, only an inarticulate sound escaped him. He left the guest room and pulled the door shut behind him with a sudden jolt.

As soon as Thorn stepped out of the rear entrance to Berenilde's estate, the illusion of daybreak rolled back into a polar night. He wound his way through the alleys of Citaceleste, banishing every trace of the stubborn fiancée from his mind, turning the task that lay ahead into his sole focus. Passers-by avoided him, no one held him back. He accessed the kennels with the help of his master key and breathed shallowly, employed the full strength of his filters. Entering the unmanned office of the Transport Management, he dropped his suitcase on the luggage rack and bent over the register.

The Treasury could, in pursuit of its duties, make use of Citaceleste’s public goods. Thorn's journey, however, would not be entirely on behalf of the Treasury. Upon his return, he would answer for this overstepping of his authority – he had never evaded the consequences of his actions. He pressed a stamp below the latest entry in the register.

He opened the suitcase and distributed its contents among two large saddlebags, draped the bags over his shoulder and grabbed one of the saddles that wore the symbol of Citaceleste burnt into the leather. Panting under his load, he arrived at the designated kennel.

He was welcomed with a growl. The massive sledge dog had retreated into a corner, its ears set back, the nose crinkled; a wild look from bright-golden eyes warned him to not approach further. Thorn lowered the saddle. His claws buzzed beneath his layer of control. Disobedience was something he could do without.

He made a move toward the beast, which was almost overtowering him, and bored his stare into its eyes until the snarl subsided and segued into a low whimper. The tail started to tap gingerly onto the ground.

Thorn inhaled deeply, braced himself for the touch of warm fur, for fine hairs that would stick to his skin, clothing, and inside his throat. He saddled the horse-sized beast with trembling hands. Finally, he fetched his travel fur and slid it over his head.

He led the beast out into the polar night. The winds pushed against him, bit under his hood and pumped his lungs full of fresh air. Thorn sat up; the beast shifted under his weight and gave a throaty, short yelp. Thorn guided it towards the air corridor. Then he bent over the bulky body and dug his hands into the neck fur, compressed his inner and outer shaking into an infinitesimal knot and gave the command.

Stars swirled through the dark, the wind cut painfully between his eyelids and Thorn, for the first time in a long while, sunk completely into himself. A feeling of elation glimmered there; he had escaped the false life, the stifling ministerial meetings and council hearings, the constant illusions spun from words turning around themselves, the voidness. He had a task. He knew the risk he was taking, felt how everything could slip away from him, could come undone like a cloud of smoke, and yet nothing was as real as this moment. He steered his mount along the dark shapes of rugged ice, his thoughts rushing recklessly ahead and to his next destination.

The Treasurer of Citaceleste had a meeting with the outcasts.


End file.
